


Supply and Demand

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [82]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Comedy, Fluff, Gen, cuddlecore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:50:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7129133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continued adventures of Professor Fluffington, the talking cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supply and Demand

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Paws, Unpaws](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050710) by [levendis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis). 



> for resting-meme-face/ferndavant, who prompted: More of the adventures of Clara and the Doctor and Professor Fluffington please.

The cat stares at Clara in silent judgment.

“I’m just grabbing some biscuits,” Clara says. She edges gingerly around the edges of the kitchen, feeling behind her for the cupboard door. “No treats for you this time, sorry.”

The cat glares. “I HAVE DISCOVERED HOW TO OPEN ALL COMPARTMENTS IN THIS AREA. I DO NOT REQUIRE YOU FOR TREATS.”

“Great, good - good for you.” Clara clutches the packet of Jaffa Cakes to her chest and slowly walks backwards, towards where the door normally is.

“THAT IS NOT THE ISSUE AT PAW.”

“No?” Where is the door? She breaks eye-contact and glances quickly around. There is no door.

“NO. I DO NOT APPRECIATE YOUR CONDESCENSION, HUMAN. AND I DO NOT APPRECIATE YOUR PRESENCE IN MY KITCHEN.” The cat flops backwards, legs stretched out, and commences licking herself clean.

“I’ll just be going, then. Ta,” she says, with a very forced air of cheer, pointing at the door that has thankfully popped back into existence.

She doesn’t run, per se, once she’s back in the corridor, but she does pick up the pace a little.

* * *

“I think Professor Fluffington is getting smarter,” she says. She’s keeping an eye out, keeping her feet off the ground. Which, conveniently, is a good snuggling position, curled up on the couch against the Doctor, pretending that she isn’t sort of using him as a shield against a potential attack.

The Doctor shoves another Jaffa Cake into his mouth, cheeks pooching like a chipmunk. “Of course she’s smart. Otherwise she wouldn’t be a professor.”

She gets the sense that he’d actually just garbled incoherently through the mouthful of biscuit, the TARDIS picking up the slack. “She’s a cat, she’s not actually - whatever. I mean that she’s, she’s speaking in complete sentences now, she seems to have control over the TARDIS’ geography, she thinks the kitchen is her territory…I’m just, I’m a little concerned, is all.”

“I think that’s commendable,” he says, ish, still chewing. “We should all strive to educate ourselves, to become better than we were. Also I might have. Hooked her into the TARDIS databanks, so technically, she, uh. Knows everything. That’s ever been, or will…be.” He breaks off as she leans back to give him a panicked, angry stare.

“So she knows how to make a bomb, then.”

“Well, probably not-”

“How to get around not having any _thumbs_. The oeuvre of Ayn Rand. Youtube comments. You’ve given a _cat_ unfettered, artificially enhanced access to the _entirety of the universe_ -”

“She’s a cat,” he interrupts. Rubs her upper arm in a manner presumably meant to be comforting (she’s not comforted). “What’s the worst that could possibly happen?”

She sighs, settles back into his embrace. Possibly she’d been overreacting. Everything was probably fine.

“So, uh. If I asked you to go and get more of these,” he says, crumpling up the empty biscuit packet and tossing it over his shoulder. “You’d say-”

“Get ‘em yourself,” she muttered, poking him in the stomach.

“Mmm. And then I’d say, ‘oh, well, if you’re afraid-”

“I am _not_ afraid-”

“-If you’re afraid of the cat, then, fine.” He delicately wipes off a smear of chocolate from the corner of his mouth, then licks it off his hand; she tries not to enjoy that. “And then you, out of spite, would go get me more biscuits just to prove me wrong.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I hate you,” she says.

He shrugs. And she goes back to the kitchen.

* * *

This is patently ridiculous, and Clara’s doing it anyway. That should be the title of her memoir. _What the Fuck, Really: The Story of Clara Oswald._ She pastes a smile on her face and affects a nonthreatening pose, and then knocks on the door.

“Permission to enter? Oh great cat-being. Her Fluffness.”

“YOUR SARCASM IS NOT APPRECIATED,” comes the faint mechanical reply. “BUT YOU MAY ENTER.”

She slides in, giving the TARDIS a quick mental request to keep the damn door where it belongs. “Just here for some more snacks.”

Professor Fluffington, now resting comfortably atop a velvet pillow, with tassels, watches Clara imperiously as she fumbles through the cupboards. “IF NOT-HUMAN SAYS HE DOES NOT HAVE NUTRITIONAL REQUIREMENTS SIMILAR TO YOUR OWN THEN HE IS LYING,” she says. The red light on her collar blinking ominously.

“I’ll be sure to bring that up to him,” Clara says. And pauses, jammy dodgers in hand. “D'you want. You still like - being pet? Can I?”

Professor Fluffington preens. “YOU MAY.”

Gingerly, Clara tiptoes over, bends down, and stretches her hand out. The cat waits as she hesitates, gathers her courage, and then goes in for a chin-scritch.

“MIAOW,” the cat says, rolling over.

“Good gir - no, no. Thank you. Your highness.”

“SARCASM,” the cat admonishes, purring and rubbing her head against Clara’s hand.

“Right, sorry. Um.” She settles in, committed to petting the hell out of this cat.

“ARE YOU AWARE OF POST-KEYNESIAN ECONOMIC THEORY?”

Clara puts on her very best laughing-in-the-face-of-danger grin. “No, no I’m not. Tell me?”

* * *

 _It’s been thirty minutes and I’m still biscuitless,_ the Doctor complains over the intercom. _Is everything alright?_

“Everything is great,” Clara says. “Just learning about capitalism. Love that…capitalism.”

Professor Fluffington gently, lovingly rests a paw on Clara’s thigh, and launches into an overview of British industry circa the mid-70s.


End file.
